SinnerS
by trinity-tragedy
Summary: Takes place a few months after the film... A young girl with mysterious gifts seeks out Dt. Dodson... but she's not what she seems. Much to Angela's surprise, there's only one person who can help her. Sexual tension galore as well!
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

_"As long as it takes..."_

That's what he'd told her, and Angela had no idea what she was in for. Within the next 48 hours, she would be pulled through walls, doors and windows of a highrise office block, sent to Hell and possessed by Satan's son, Mammon, and --as if that wasn't enough-- nearly became the not-so proud mother of a bouncing baby Antichrist... but she'd survived. Thinking back on it, she'd never in a million years guessed it would turn out that way. If only she could thank her instincts, her police training or maybe even her strict Catholic upbringing for her survival, but she knew it wasn't to be. When it had been tested, it meant squat. She had been merely a pawn in the grand scheme of it all and it didn't take a psychic to know that she owed her life to him.

"So I'll... see you around?"  
"Yeah. I'd like that." He was so close that she could almost taste the scent of him, her mouth slightly open and ready to receive the kiss she had been aching for. Something in John's eyes reciprocated her feelings. However, he never moved any closer, and the next step that would've sealed the moment was lost. Wanting desperately to escape the situation, she made up some lame excuse and walked away, stopping for a moment to turn and look back at him before making her way home slowly.

* * *

John had wanted nothing more than to lose himself in Angela, to be swept away in emotion, not another care in the world. The simple fact was, anyone who got close to him became a liability: the enemies he accumulated had a penchant for harming those near and dear to him, and he would not do that to her. He couldn't. As he stood on the top of Ravenscar Sanitarium looking out over the city, he felt a sudden childish urge to blow a bubble in the gum in his mouth.

"City of Angels, my ass." Well, at least the First of the Fallen had left his biting, sarcastic wit intact. But now, what reason was there to be like that? He'd been given another chance at life! A clean slate: or more to the point, a clean set of lungs. At this thought he reached into his pocket and retrieved a small packet, ripping away the silver paper to find only one piece of gum left. "Shit." The now-clenched fist released and the scraps of paper floated from his palm and over the edge of the building, soaring and dipping from side to side; end over end until a drift caught it and pulled it away from his line of vision.

A feeling of melancholy swept over him, chilling his frame slightly... or maybe it was just the blinding wind? He knew he couldn't stand there much longer without needing some form of a vice; it was just who he was. Maybe this is what had Lucifer had meant when he gave him back his years. "Well, my liver's still shot..." he remarked to no one in particular, thrusting his hands into his pockets and turning on his heel, heading for the door that would lead him back inside.

* * *

Paper bag in tow, Constantine trudged heavily-footed over to his usual chair and dropped into the seat, pushing the paper barrier down from the bottle in his hand. His coat had been shed now, the shirt's sleeves haphazardly rolled up to the elbows. The lid twisted off the green bottle with a snap and John's eyes traced over the tabletop, coming to rest on the discarded softpack. He was certain he could see another stick of tobacco in the depths of the paper shadows. Drumming his fingers on the surface in thought he instead lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. The psychological cravings still remained. "Perfect..." he commented gruffly in between gulps.

He allowed his mind to wander but for a moment and found it tumbling back to the young woman he'd let walk away. He could easily waste his time in "if only" and "I wish" but he knew there was no point. Life was cruel, and he knew it better than most. The world was full of blissfully ignorant people walking around with blindfolds over their eyes. For some theirs had slipped off in the shuffle. His however, was ablaze in his fist as he used it to light his next cigarette.

His last cigarette.

Surely it wasn't supposed to be this hard.

If he wasn't thinking about staring lazily at the plumes of blue-grey smoke that would pour from a charred ember and curl around his head as he drowned in the contents of a green-tinted bottle, he was thinking about the girl. The one that got away, wasn't that what they called it? "Not the first time," he retorted darkly, deciding not to act like a total derelict, and instead, pouring himself a tumbler full of the red wine that he'd been upending down his throat.

With a derisive snort his arms stretched out and fell upon the red packet, which he collected with long, nimble fingers and brought back to sit in front of his face. Full glass on his left, half-empty bottle on his right and the packet directly in front. His chin sounded on the tabletop, intent chocolate eyes never leaving the packet, as if he was trying to stare it down. His jaw clenched and he breathed in, letting the breath out in a short gust to blow the packet over. A sly, lopsided smirk spread over his chiselled face and he sat up again, the glass immediately returning to his hand.

'As if things could be any different.' John sat in quiet contemplation, refilling his now-empty glass. What good did he ever hope to achieve? Sure, he'd helped Isabel find peace, but that was only because he knew what a... erm... hellhole Hell was. That and to piss Lucifer off, which was a skill he was honing to a fine art. The look on the First of the Fallen's face when he realised what he'd done, man, what he would've done for a camera! But what had he lost? Three great friends and the chance with a beautiful woman. What had he gained? An overwhelming sense of guilt and a top-up to his neverending supply of acrimony. Defeated he picked up the packet and shuffled the remaining cigarette into the corner, plucked it up with his wine-stained lips and lit the gas stove, holding his tie down as he bent to scorch the end. It flared as he breathed the acrid smoke back into his cleansed lungs and he was certain he could hear a rumbling laughter from beneath. Cigarette firmly ensconced he spun around to the fridge, retrieving a new bottle from the top of it.

It was going to be a _long_ night.

* * *

Tapered fingers lacing around the steaming mug, Angela stared at the blank screen, waiting for the words to come to her. How could she start this report? She'd shot and killed yet another man but this time, there were no leads, no snitches, nothing. Just her instincts. She was lucky enough to have dodged the bullet that was meant for her but in no way did it justify her actions in the terms of the law. She had brushed by him in the street and had instantly seen what he'd done. A flash of naked upper thigh, a line of dark metal that shot up into a frightened woman's mouth as saltwater streamed from her eyes down onto the gun's barrel. Rape at gunpoint. Without another thought she'd turned on him, retrieved her gun and badge screaming "LAPD!" and put a bullet in his temple. He'd hit the ground in slow motion; it took her a moment to recollect herself and realise what had eventuated.

A sigh escaped her lips and she took another mouthful of coffee, thinking back about a month ago, to the last time she'd laid eyes on the rude, sarcastic, broody man that had altered her perception forever. His dark hair and intense, deeply-pained eyes, the deep, inviting timbre of his voice that enveloped her body like crushed velvet, the last look they'd shared, a notion of a reunion that would most likely never be...

She was so swept up in her thoughts and the void her screen created that she didn't notice the bare footfalls along the polished precinct floor or the admonishments of her colleagues as a distraught, disoriented young woman stumbled towards her and whipped her around in her chair by the shoulder. The protest on her tongue stopped dead upon the woman's touch: fear. Horrific, debilitating fear. Images flashed through her mind, but they were all too rapid to comprehend. "What the...?" Angela's brown eyes implored the twisted grey depths before her, her lips parted to speak, but the words wouldn't push forth, the terror emanating wholly affecting her.

She lost her footing and the woman fell to her knees, her stringy blonde hair falling over her face as she tried to speak.

"C... C-Co-..."

"It's alright, take your time." Dodson maternally placed her hand on the girl's shoulder, stretching back for her mug. Perhaps a mouthful of the steaming liquid within would help to alleviate her nerves. However, it took all her strength not to drop the cup when the blonde finally spoke:

_"...C-Constantine..."_

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

By the time Angela had inhaled enough coffee to keep a bat awake through the day, she had given the girl a mug of her own and three blankets to put around her shoulders. The tattered rags she was wearing were nearly worn through and she was sporting some particularly nasty bruises on the skin the detective could see: perhaps she had been held captive somewhere? She was shaking violently and seemed to be soaked through. Whether it was water or sweat, she wasn't sure. She couldn't have been over 20, her frightened steel eyes peering out from behind the blonde, matted strings of hair. Her breath was ragged, her shoulders quivering. Was she still cold? Gazing upon the poor girl with sympathy in her eyes she deduced that it didn't matter how many blankets she gave her. She was petrified out of her wits.

"Do you know where you are?" she began softly, apprehensive to scare the girl further. Through her near-convulsing, she was sure she shook her head "no". "Do you... know _who_ you are?" Another "no", the moisture in her hair falling in scattered drops. Angela leaned in closer and bent down to see if she could catch the girl's eye. "What about why you're here?"

"C-C-Co-Const-..."

Her mouth tried to form the word, but it couldn't get past her throat. To the detective, it looked like the poor girl was only able to say John's surname... but why? What significance did he have in this girl's story? A quick, cursory glance around the precinct saw that her superior was having an argument with the district attorney and with that, grabbed her keys and coat and lifted the blonde out of the chair and hugged her close to comfort her as she guided her out the front door of the police station.

* * *

She brought the car to a halt carefully; the movement of the vehicle had shaken the girl further, if that had at all been possible. The key was removed from the ignition with a click and Angela unclipped the girl's seatbelt and opened her door, then did the same with her own. Angela's sunglasses caught a hint of glare from the overhead sun and she squinted, closing the door to her black four-wheel drive and crossed over to the other side, assisting her passenger with a leant shoulder. The blankets around the blonde could not disguise the shaking frame beneath, her bare toes curling and scratching upon the cement underfoot as if she'd never felt anything like it before. Behind the darkened lenses, hazel eyes narrowed at the observation, then trailed upwards to the building that lay in front of them. With a firm hand on her shoulder, she dropped her glasses down on her nose and looked into the girl's eyes. "Do you know where we are now?" Her jaw tensed and she shook her head with a blank look, her eyes downcast.

* * *

Another cigarette spent, John pushed the butt into the large centrepiece ashtray that adorned his kitchen table with yellowed fingers and sighed. For some reason, sleep hadn't been coming... not that it was anything _new_ for him not to rest easy some nights, but not so many nights in a row. By now, the alcohol is his system would've helped him to... well, pass out really, but all in all it would mean some shut-eye. Something was... amiss --he could feel it-- and after all he'd experienced he would be a fool to discount his instincts. A light rapping at his door saw him turn his head in its direction, thrusting a hand into his pocket and crossing the space over to the threshold with another sigh. He wasn't really in the mood for company, but it was polite: okay, he was being voluntarily polite now? 'Man, you're losing your fucking mind.' He opened the door and took in a sharp breath.

"John, I..." Was she saying anything? Her mouth was moving, but it didn't matter, she was silent.

She was what looked to him like suspended animation. All her movements were slow and fluid; dripping like honey as her eyelashes collided and came apart again, mossy irises sparkling in the overhead light. Her brown hair had an aura of copper to it and it fluttered about at her shoulders. He could see himself reflected in the glasses perched high atop her head.

Before he knew anything his heart was thudding wildly, all from her standing there, just in front of him. She looked a little awkward, one foot turning towards the other, her top row of teeth jutting out to capture her full bottom lip. A lump in his throat had been forming and all he could think of doing was pulling her into his embrace, crushing those pouty, flushed lips with his own, leaving behind any sense of reason to reckless abandon.

Instead, he gulped down said lump and gazed at her inquisitively. "I take it this _isn't_ a social call."

Angela seemed lost in her thoughts in which she shook her head abruptly to snap herself back to reality and sighed audibly. "Oh...I'm afraid not, no." Her arm stretched out beyond the doorframe and came back again, bringing with it a young girl; her head hung low, stringy, dirty-blonde hair that hung in ropes over her face, creating a wraith-like appearance that was coupled with bare feet and rags for clothing. Upon closer inspection John noted burns on her legs and the edges of her garb. His eyes narrowed and looked past them, down the hallway. Standing aside, he held the door open for Angela and her charge, his gaze intent on the hallway until the door was closed.

* * *

When he turned around into his home, he saw the girl was sitting down in his usual chair --which was already pulled out-- rocking back and forth and shivering so noticeably, she was a step off Parkinson's Disease. Something had traumatised her. Something awful. 'I don't like the look of this...'

"Okay..." he started, taking the flicked-open pack from the table, lifting it to his mouth and drawing out a single stick with his lips. "What's the problem?" Another Zippo had already been purchased, Angela noted, and she took a deep breath.

"Well, this is gonna sound strange... but you're used to strange, aren't you?" He couldn't help a wry, lopsided grin, his cheek dimpling just above the corner of his mouth and she felt her heart do flips in her chest. "Anyway, this girl came up to me in the precinct this morning, I don't know where she's from, if anyone dropped her off, who sent her, anything."

"And what does this have to do wi-?"

"C-Const-tan-t-tine..." He peered down at the girl then warily, who had taken a handful the fabric on his pants leg, as if wanting his attention. A quick glance back at Angela and he saw her "Does that answer your question?" look.

Carefully he crouched down, looking up at her with surprisingly warm eyes.

"I'm Constantine," he offered, turning his head to the side some, seeing if he could break through her outer shell. She was shut up, alright, _real_ tight. His words got through to her although and she lifted her head with difficult, jerky movements. Eyes cold and the colour of steel, the blonde stared deep into the magus' irises and he flinched, the brown orbs growing larger as his eyes widened at what he saw:

_Fire._

_Pain._

_Agony beyond words..._

_And suddenly he is there again, a boy in his pyjamas. He feels the side of his head in wide-eyed incredulity and gasps as he runs quaking fingers through long hair. Fear and panic registers in his mind and he spins around on his feet, bare and stained with hot, red dirt. The wind carries a scent he'd long hoped to forget: fetid, sickly and stale with an acrid, dry heat._

_Running..._

_Running so fast that the landscape whizzes by in a dizzying blur. His veins ache in his arms and legs, his heart pounds, his lungs scream for a moment's peace. On and on, further and further until there is no ground left to support his escape._

_The edge of the world._

_The end of the line._

_The beginning of the end._

_His breathing is ragged now, coming in turgid, wheezing gasps. Nowhere left to run to. The fear returns with a vengeance, nipping at his bruised heels. The tears cut paths of acid into his face and he sinks to his knees... looks up for a sign. Some help._

_Anything but this. _

_Never again._

_Please, not again._

_His head turns to the right and she's there, standing on the edge not so far away, toes curled over the precipice with her arms spread wide, as if readying herself to dive. Her blond hair whips at her shoulders brutally, her once-glorious, flowing white garment thrashing at her marred skin. Neck, hands, arms, legs: each carry their own scars of some description. Her head turns and she sees him, her eyes reflecting their ashen hue. Her mouth moves, but he's too far away to know what she's saying._

_Desperation takes hold..._

_One foot planted he shoots to his feet and sprints across to her, to no avail. He has only covered half the distance by the time she launches off, a fading beacon of light into the abyss below..._

John lurched away from her, nearly smacking his back into the sink behind him. Angela looked on in confusion; maybe he saw something? With cautious steps she crossed the distance from where she was over to John's fallen, heaving form and placed her hand on his shoulder. He lifted his head, looking up at her. She would have never thought she could see such a look in John's eyes: terror. The look in the girl's eyes. Unconsciously she gave his shoulder a supportive squeeze. "What did you see?" she whispered, almost afraid to know the answer. His breath was like that of a frightened child and he looked at the girl again, whose head was again sunk low. On his hands and knees he crawled closer to the girl, his arms bent as he looked up at her through the endless wall of blonde hair.

_"I know you, don't I?..."_

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Confusion didn't even come to close to describe how Angela was feeling. Here was a man who seemed impervious; solid as rock reduced to a near-frantic, quivering mess. Her heart twinged at his obvious vulnerability with a need so fierce, she wanted to hold him and drive his demons far, far away. The detective had never seen such naked horror in John's eyes before: she'd assumed he was incapable of deep feelings like that.

John's heart roared like consistent claps of thunder in his chest, his shaking hands gripping fistfuls of his trouser legs as he knelt upon the floor in front of the blonde, fighting for her attention.

"I do! I know I do! Talk to me!" He appeared to be close to begging her, as if pleading to her would soothe his troubled soul. She didn't answer him though, she just sat and looked at her lap, a million miles away. Growing more and more frustrated he stood slowly and drove a rough hand through his hair, trudging across the floor to his sleeping quarters at the back of the apartment. A low sigh and he dropped onto the bed and sat on the edge, his head on his hands. Angela moved towards him carefully, afraid that he would snap and turn on her. Their feet were nearly touching, her eyes full of concern for him.

"John?" His head lifted to meet her eyes, his own welling with the conflicting emotions bottled up inside him.  
"I... I don't understand."  
"What don't you understand?" she inquired, her head turning to the side.  
"How can she be the same as she was then?"  
"What?"  
"I've seen her before. I knew I had. But, why is she as she was?" Angela could just about swear she felt her brain dribbling out her ears. "She's been through Hell... literally. It makes no sense..."  
'_You're_ not making sense...' Angela's brow furrowed, revealing two perfect lines above the bridge of her nose.  
John's distress subsided and he replaced his head in his hands with a breath of exasperation. Her hand came to touch his shoulder and he responded, falling forward into her stomach. She was immediately taken aback for an instant but recovered just as quickly; her heart thudding loud in her head. Both arms encircled his shoulders and he stayed there with his face in his palms, elbows planted firmly on his knees, absorbing the warmth her embrace provided.

* * *

They stayed like that for what felt like a lifetime, Angela's hand shifting into his hair. Her nails raked through the ebony strands and he sighed quietly. He pulled back first, swallowing as he moved away.  
"I... sorry."  
"It's alright." She shifted from foot to foot and cleared her throat. "I'm going to... put her into protective custody until I know more." He nodded numbly. "I'll come back and we'll talk then?" Another nod. At a loss she stepped back, walking back to the girl and eased her out of the chair. "I'll see you soon."  
Still staring into his own little corner of space he lifted his hand for a lacklustre wave. Her eyes never left his blank face, even as she showed herself and her charge out of his apartment.

* * *

This time when Angela stood in the hallway she was nervous all over again. Every time she had intended to knock on his door she lost her nerve.  
'This is ridiculous,' she mused to herself, rapping at the door before she changed her mind again.

John was quick to answer, a thick aroma of aftershave, crisp cotton and cigarettes wafting over her nostrils. Fighting with her senses she remained steadfast, calm on the exterior, but only barely. Through the gap in the doorway John's face appeared, his fingers curling around the wooden panel at his head height. His defined features had softened from when she'd seen him last, but there was still an air of caution to his movements. He moved back to let her in, striding back over to the just-opened bottle of scotch and the cigarette burning away in the ashtray on the table. She closed the door behind herself, likening the moment to that of walking into a smoky jazz bar as a record warbled away on the player, providing a comforting ambience to the apartment. Rearranging the handbag strap on her shoulder she strode over and sat in the chair to the right of John's.  
"Do you mind?" she queried, wrapping her fingers around the neck of the scotch bottle.  
"Go crazy." With that she upended the bottle and guzzled down a burning mouthful before replacing it in front of Constantine. His eyes crossed hers with a look so genuinely tender she nearly felt tears prickle at her eyes... or perhaps that was because of the liquor?

"She's in a safehouse," the detective muttered, staring at his hand as it lay down a glass and filled it halfway with the whisky, topping up his own while he was at it.  
"Question is though, who needs the protecting?" He tipped his glass up for a long mouthful and took the cigarette in between two fingers, bringing it up to his lips and securing it there as he sat down.  
"What do you mean?" Angela's brow crinkled again and John felt an urge to run his digits over her forehead, to make the creases vanish.  
"I mean, she's dangerous. Who knows what will happen if she decides to put a whammy on someone else?" She smiled at his words and swallowed down more of the alcohol from the glass in her hand.  
"I think that was only intended for you."  
"Well, lucky me," he sniped quietly, his voice muffled by the cigarette in his mouth.  
"Seriously though," she began, leaning forward in the seat, "what harm could possibly come to anyone who crosses her path?"  
"If she's really escaped from Hell, then _she's_ not the one they'll have to worry about."

* * *

The girl looked at the back of her hands, gazing in wonder at the milky-white skin wrought with scars and abrasions. Each slowly healed itself, knitting together and leaving a healthy pink in place of the visceral scarring and redness. This rapid healing capability must've been due to the human world.

They'd found her there.

For so long she had evaded those who had wanted her dead, but they'd discovered her in Hell. She'd had to escape. She'd watched the boy do it. She'd observed him as he got older coming and going as he pleased. It had looked easy... she'd just need a consecrated object. That had turned out to be the hardest part of her plan. Luckily for her, she'd discovered a priest who'd been influenced by the First and taken his own life. His fellow clergymen (the ones he'd left alive, anyway) took pity on the man and buried him with a vial of holy water to protect him from what obviously lay ahead for an ex-Catholic priest bound for Hell. She hadn't needed to talk him into it either! Seems he'd lost his faith long ago. What a stroke of luck. Freedom was so close she felt she'd have been able to taste it. Her plan had been successful and now she was here, in this locked room, sitting on the springy bed in the blue pyjamas they'd supplied. They had bathed her, tended to her wounds and matted hair. It now flipped out across her shoulders and shone like rays of pure, golden sunshine. She was the perfect picture of chaos: an innocent face coupled with eyes that knew too much.

She was still watching the afflictions on her knuckles closing up when a cold chill swept over her. Looking up she saw a dark figure forming out of the shadows in the room. It stood at the foot of the bed, a pair or menacing, red eyes brightening within the void.

_"There you are, Amathea..."_

* * *

John relayed his experience to Angela over the table, cigarette after cigarette inhaled and glass after glass drained. Good thing he'd gotten two bottles.  
'My God, he can drink!' Angela noted in the back of her mind, watching as he tossed each drink down like bitter-tasting water. She was in an awe of sorts while affected by what he was telling her. She already knew about his "3 minute" ordeal in hell and she'd been there herself, but she knew that she couldn't even pretend to understand what it was like. She sympathised though, it would've been traumatic for a child.

"She would leap over the edge so many times, I lost count. It's not like she'd die or anything. Already dead in Hell."  
"Over and over again?"  
"And over and over and over." He lifted his eyes to the peeling paint on the ceiling and the wall as his mind wandered in thought. "It was like she wanted to fall away..."

* * *

Amathea's bottom lip was caught between her teeth as the intruder took a corporeal form. He was a well-dressed man in a charcoal tailored suit with a striking red tie and eyes to match. This had _not_ been a part of the plan. They weren't supposed to find her so soon.

"You've really crossed the line this time, little miss. The boss isn't amused." The sullen grey eyes blinked and focused upon the man coolly. The dimly-lit room started to take on a foreboding hue as a red aura brightened around the blonde. Her hair flew out around her, scratching at her neck every now and then.  
"C'mon, sweetcheeks," he jeered, taking slow, sauntering steps up the length of the mattress, his fingers trailing along the side of her leg. Her lips hinted at a scowl, her skin crawling. "Time to go back home now." She shook her head slightly in response, her mouth tightening and pulling back from her teeth. Fists balled she glared at her assailant, their eyes locking. Suddenly, smoke seeped out from beneath his collar.  
"B-back... home?" Her fear eased and anger built within her, relentless and persistent. She was shaking, the springs in the mattress audibly protesting the movement.  
"I won't!" the girl stated, her eyes widening. He unfastened the top button of his shirt, caustic smoke pouring out from the fabric as his skin bubbled.  
"What... what are you doing? _NOOOOOOOO!"_ His cries went unheeded and faded away in the deluge of blindingly-white light that encompassed his body...

* * *

A hurried unlocking of the door and light poured into the room from the bleach-white corridor, a silhouette of a woman standing in the threshold.  
"Everything alright in here, child?" The orderly cast her eyes around the room unconvinced, sure that she'd heard a scream...  
Looking away again Amathea nodded slowly, wondering if the woman had noticed the smouldering pile of ash on the floor below her feet or the half-smirk cemented upon her lips.  
"Are you sure?" Something didn't add up...  
Again, the girl nodded, this time looking towards the woman who froze and pleaded her apology for the intrusion, promptly closing the door behind her. She pulled her spectacles away from her face and pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut as far as they would go. She really needed to get her eyes checked again! For a moment there, the girl's eyes looked crazy, like one pupil was red and the other white! 'What nonsense,' she reprimanded, replacing her glasses and going to the next room to check for any disturbances.

* * *

"Anyway, I'll check on her tomorrow, make sure she's okay..." John nodded and pulled another cigarette from the packet with his lips. It must've been the alcohol, but Angela noticed that she was watching his mouth _way_ too closely. She looked away just before he glanced at her. He smiled to himself; his skin bathed in soft orange light as he singed the end of his cigarette and drew back deeply. The fluorescent lights overhead had been switched off and only the light of the moon streamed in through the open louvres over the arched windows. The flaking green walls cast ominous shadows across the floor as the lighter sparked, refracting in the bottles of holy water all along the far wall.

The record on the player had just finished, John listening for the sound of the next record dropping onto the first and the needle finding the groove accompanied by the familiar crackle that followed. He finished the remainder of the contents in his glass and poured himself another, turning his attention over to Angela and her glass.  
"Another?" he asked, brows raised in question. Her eyes focused and she blinked, looking at him slowly.  
"Huh? Oh... yes. Please." Without thinking she grabbed the glass to push towards him as he did the same, his warm hand underneath hers...

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

There was hardly a moment for John to register shock for she had already removed her hand like she'd been burnt. "Oh, uhh..." she began feebly as she held onto her wrist, "I'm sorry!"  
"No problem," he replied, mainly to his own inner monologue than to her, turning his head to the side and trying to look preoccupied. Now was not the time to be getting carried away with emotional ties, especially after what had happened in the last few months. People he knew and cared for were dropping like flies: what would happen to a woman he might choose to love and, worse still, give love in return? He wouldn't let another's life be on his conscience, no matter _how_ badly he wanted her. Instead he sighed quietly and poured the drinks.

Not much was said afterwards. They were both lost in their own thoughts and derisions. After another a-side of moody jazz tunes she finished the glass she was drinking from and grabbed her car keys, getting to her feet in a half-dazed swagger. John saw this and put his own tumbler onto the table.  
"I better go home..."  
"Not in _that_ state, you're not. You're sleeping in my bed..."  
Her head turned and she regarded him with a confused, glazed look.  
"...and I'm sleeping on the couch."  
Yes... of _course_ he was... "Uh-okay." Why hadn't she lingered? Let it look like she wasn't so goddamned eager? Perhaps she could blame it on her intoxication levels should it ever come up again. If she remembered it in the morning...  
With heavy steps she shuffled across the bare floorboards and found John prepping his bed, turning down the top sheet even.  
"Well, aren't you just the perfect little host?"  
"Not a word of this to anyone at the Precinct or I could lose my edge." With a flick of her hair she laughed silently and continued through to the bathroom.

The door closed and John straightened up from his bent position and brought his hands up to his face, pressing down on his brow like it could ease the pressure residing there. This nonsense had to stop; he had to get a grip. He knew better than this, he knew where it would all ultimately lead: an untimely end for an innocent woman.

Not again.

_Never_ again.

No more blood on these hands.

"It shouldn't be too cold tonight..." With a sigh he leant down and picked up the blanket folded at the base of the bed and dragged it across the floor over to the fold-out couch, dumping it on the cushions and heading back over to the kitchen table where his scotch awaited him patiently. Why couldn't life be as simple as a drinking a glass of whisky? No attachments, drink it down, get yourself another, repeat the whole damned process until you can't see or think straight anymore. He took the glass in his hand, watching the amber-coloured liquid reflect in the low light as the bathroom door opened. With haste John tipped the contents of the tumbler down his throat and stood, placing the empty receptacle down onto the tabletop.

Life was never meant to be easy. Especially when you don't bother to use the glass provided.

* * *

Sleep was never a straightforward task when John was concerned and it was even harder tonight. He ran the problems in his mind over and over until they became a garbled mess. He couldn't figure the girl out. Only the flashes of the fire and brimstone, her falling into a chasm...  
His head shuddered involuntarily, feeling the chill slither its way up his spine. Regardless, he'd told Angela to get her out of the safehouse as soon as possible, so it would probably happen in the morning.

He had stripped down to his boxer briefs and didn't even bother folding out the sofa, his feet and half his legs hanging out over the side of the couch. The blanket was too small but it didn't matter anyway, it covered him enough for him to be comfortable. One arm was laid over his abdomen above the blanket and the other supported his head as he bore holes in the cracked ceiling with his transfixed stare. He was too preoccupied to sleep, it seemed. He would have to start doing his own research. All his "friends" had been killed, and he wasn't sure how he was going to be able to protect this girl. Only he and Angela would understand enough to even attempt trying to crack this case... the sceptics would have a kegger. That and he'd always sucked at the prospect of homework. Sure, he'd studied arcane tomes in the past, but that was in order to practise his craft. Maybe it was time to start brushing up. The idea alone was exhausting. After some time, John fell into a deep, uneasy sleep.

* * *

Angela's eyes opened, her head pounding mercilessly. She groaned at the throbbing then sat bolt upright. Where was she? Oh, that's right. Whisky. Too drunk to drive. John's bed.

She looked back at the pillow she'd slept on and exhaled quietly, softly touching the fabric of the pillowcase. She was amazed she'd remembered to remove her shoes; she had practically stumbled to bed last night. It was still a weekday anyway, she would have to go into work.

Swivelling she placed her socked feet to the floor and stood, the roaring in her head making itself doubly as apparent. Was it still dark? No, it was the louvres over the windows that had blocked out the early morning rays of the sun. She started to walk over to the kitchen table, stopping when her attention snapped to light, even snoring. She looked at the couch and saw John sleeping, his limbs spread out everywhere across the rustic piece of furniture. One arm and leg was draped over the side of the couch, the other two limbs dragging on the floor. The blanket was tangled around one of his legs, tugged dangerously low over his hip and baring just a hint of the black waistband of his boxers. His hair did as it pleased, spread out over the arm of the couch. She stepped closer, his face coming into full focus. His lips were parted and parched, his broad chest rising and falling with each breath. A smile formed on her lips and her arm reached out, her fingers stroking over the ebony bangs. Suddenly she realised what she was doing and pulled away, John stirring a little as she did. With one last look she resumed the gathering of her things and left quietly.

* * *

When John awoke there was an offensive sliver of direct sunlight streaming into his eyes and he coiled away from it like a distressed vampire. He made sure to move before opening his eyes fully, bleary vision focusing and looking at the louvres over the windows. For the sun to be so high... it must've been midday. Making a face and cringing he stretched his long arms up to the ceiling, planting his feet down on the floor and getting to his feet with a bit of a stumble. If there was one thing that John wasn't, it was a morning person... even if it was already afternoon. It was strange he was awake so early anyway, he usually caught the last remnant of dusk when he finally rose. Anyway, there were things that needed doing today. He needed information.

First stop. Midnite's.

* * *

"Fox with a stick," he rattled off with a bored tone, eyeing the doorman warily. Last time he told him he was wrong he got a fist in the face and a mild concussion for his trouble. Mr Constantine didn't seem to be in any kind of jovial mood (if he ever did) so he just showed him the card. It was exactly as he said. A red fox with a monocle and waistcoat, holding a cane. Fox with a stick. John hadn't even slowed his momentum but the rope had been unclipped by the time he got to it.

With a measured gait the dark-clothed man descended the stairs and reached out and opened the door: it must've been Hybrid Happy Hour. Mind you, business had been slower since the altercation with the holy water sprinklers at Ravenscar, but there were still a number of half-breeds scattered around the darkened establishment, red and white pupils shining in the varying blue and scarlet lighting overhead. They each regarded him separately, some with approval and others with disdain. Majority of the latter.  
'Yup, still got it.'  
His path led him to the leather-cushioned door and he focused his will at it, then through it. With a clack it unlatched and swung inward, allowing his entry.

* * *

Papa Midnite was sitting in the corner of the lushly-furnished room, a half-full bottle of claret upon the tabletop. His outfit's material matched that of the plush blood-red draperies behind him, contrasted by the black velvet-like patterned fabric of his suit. John wondered how many suits Midnite had at home that were exactly the same. Still, not like he could talk. Day in, day out, black suit and tie, white shirt. Black overcoat. Yeah... imaginative ensemble.

John sat opposite him without any prompting and poured some of the wine into Midnite's glass and took a mouthful.  
"To what do I owe such pleasure?" the dark man quipped, obviously expecting that kind of behaviour.  
"You're still alive," John replied grimly, taking his cigarettes from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulling one out between his dried lips. The Zippo was in his other hand already and after a twist and a flick of his wrist, the cigarette was lit and the lighter back in his pocket. "I need information."

"Really? And what makes you think I can help you?" The Voodoo priest leant forward and places his elbows down upon the table and regarded one of his statuettes off to the side. After a long pause he looked back at John, the smile on his face seeming a touch intimidating.  
"I'll do what I can."

* * *

With a small flask of J&B 80 Proof in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other John gazed straight up at the sky, one leg dangling down off the cold stone and the other foot flat against it. The sky was like a watercolour painting: hues of pink, orange, blue and even some purple each bleeding into a different, darker shade as the sun fell further from the sky. Leaves rustled over the hard marble monument beneath him, his leg swinging back and forth as he waited. The flat, green bottle came up to his chest and he unscrewed the cap and sat up a bit to swig some down, following up with a drag from the cigarette. Leaves littered the ground, a myriad of reds, oranges and browns with stark, bleak headstones jutting up amongst the layers of autumn colour. Why he'd agreed to meet her in a graveyard was beyond him... but at least it was quiet.

As if she'd been carried in upon the wind, she appeared in the distance as a silhouette of utter femininity. She moved with a serpentine grace that eluded any human form. Her long, straight brown hair bounced on her shoulders and flew out in feathery wisps behind as she walked towards him, a salacious smile imprinted upon her glittering, ruby painted lips. He sat up carefully, taking another mouthful from the bottle and screwing the cap closed, placing it on the slab beside him. A breath uttered and he jumped down and landed upon the carpet of crunching, skeletal foliage. She practically floated over to him and an arm snaked around his waist, nails biting into the flesh in between two ribs.  
"Hello darling..." she oozed, making the hairs on the back of John's neck snap up and rise to attention.

_"It's been a while, Ellie."_

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_"Yeeessssss, it haaasssss..."_

A shudder ran across his ear, one tip of her forked tongue sweeping over the skin of John's throat. The corner of her lip peaked for a brief moment before she sailed past him with a swagger, slithering on her feet. With each step her hip flicked out to the side, making the darkly-set magus swear Ellie actually had a tail. 'Well, she does...' The wind picked up and John's body tightened involuntarily against the burgeoning storm and the shudder that lingered heavily around his spine. Long fingers gripped audibly around the bottle it was holding, teeth ground together behind thin lips. It was useless to fight, sometimes.

With an exaggerated pout on her face she turned back to John with a whirl, spying him quaffing down liquid sunshine from the flask, brow furrowed. "We never see each other anymore..." He looked vaguely in her direction, purposely doing so to annoy her.

Why?

Why _not_?

"_And_ you only ever call me when you want something from me." Her arm rose in a dismissive fashion, the flick of her wrist smoother than a still body of clear, cool water...

Inwardly, John was trying to clear the perfumed, lust-scented, wispy, sticky strands of spider silk out of his mind. May as well have been snake venom. Ellie could play the game just as well as he could, if not better. She of course knew this and loved to play temptress. She was good at it as well. Must be relaxing to have a job you do well and enjoy doing too.

She'd been a little bit green when Constantine first met her. He must've been like a supernatural Ghostbusters or something. Hoards of the various "walks" of life liked to call on him when their shit hit the fan. 'There's a Bible in Hell... why not the Yellow fucking Pages as well?'  
The red softpack in his inner coat pocket emerged and John set about his multi-hourly health break. A quick, deep lungful of poison later, the pink mist she'd spun in his head was replaced comfortingly with blue-grey. His breath rushed out of his mouth, grinning sneakily as the smoke drifted over her face, held inside the magical bubble he'd conjured around it and the mental push in her direction.

Ahhh, much better... back to contempt. He could deal with that. Her eyelids dropped against the acrid exhalation, the pupils of her eyes narrowing to that of a reptile's. They glowed with an unholy --for lack of a better word-- yellow-green light, made all the more horrifying by the contrasting crimson pupils.  
"Can the theatrics, Chantinelle," he murmured, the last word proclaimed with a verging-on-sarcastic tone. Her jaw set at the use of her full name, a toothy sneer decorating her cold, pale face. 'Any more jibes and she might kill you herself...'

"I need your help. You owe me."

Stiffly, her eyes rolled back behind the low lids and she ran a long-taloned hand through her silky hair, nails painted to match her cupid-bow lips. "If I had a dollar for every time you say that..."  
"...I'd have bought me more alcohol with it by now." He made himself comfortable again on the cold slab of stone and he took the last inhale of the almost-spent cigarette in his hand before tossing it away.  
"I need you to put the word out. See if anyone is missing down yonder. Subject is female, looks to be early 20s, but could go either way. It looked like she was wearing a white nightdress, or something similar. Stringy long blonde hair, grey eyes. Tortured, doesn't speak, you get the gist."  
Ankles crossed he lay upon his back, gazing at the early evening sky. Each colour seeped into each other, like watercolours on loosely-woven paper. It was then that he thought of another health break, but instead stretched an arm up and put the hand under his head. "I don't know her Name yet, but she's on the run from someone. They don't let you just _break out_ of Hell." An eyebrow arched and she rolled her eyes a second time, her hair ruffling like shiny satin sheets as the fallen, drying leaves lifted and rustled at her feet. "Unless you're me, but that's different." By the look on her face she was clearly not amused, eyes still reptilian and menacing.

"Keep it on the down low as well..." Ellie gave him a look that would wither a patch of wild roses. "Hey, just being certain," he countered, his free hand rising to take the onslaught the succubus may see fit to deal him. Her pupils were glowing red now: he'd pissed her off some, that was for sure. The winds were picking up; was she doing it? Didn't matter. He sat up and faced her, returning the not-amused looks she'd been giving him all this time. Leaves crinkling underneath his shiny shoes, John stuffed his hands in his pants pockets, dipped his head and walked away. His coat whirled around behind him in the squall, a small twister of leaves rising up into the air then scattering everywhere.  
"Oh yeah..." he muttered, directing his voice back over his shoulder. "Make it quick too." A nod of arrogance and he continued on his way, whistling a spiralling, uplifting tune as he lit a cigarette and pushed his hands into his pockets heavily, leaving the girl to fume where she stood.

* * *

The chiming of the bell above the door heralded another arrival. Business at Ishtele's had been slow after a certain trickster magus exposed her as an alleged fraud. Mind you, she most certainly was not, he had just thought it to be funny. She had been having a traumatic time and her gifts had failed on her one too many times. It was getting to the point where she didn't believe it herself, all because of him. Just because she was young and not so savvy to the ways of the Craft and its practitioners, she had been naïve. No longer. A quick look to the door and she scowled."Well," she remarked, the hair prickling on the back of her neck. "Fancy you darkening my door again. You've got a lot of nerve." Her voice rang like gypsy bells suspended around golden-brown ankles, sounding more exotic than he originally remembered. It had been so long.  
"So I've been told. Will you listen or won't you? I don't have the time to screw around."  
"Depends what you want from me."  
"Come on, don't be like that, Ish." She had to drop her head then, her blue-black hair glittering like newly-spun silk encrusted with diamond dust. It was the name he'd given her when she was only just starting to hone her craft, when she was divining and tracking with the pendulum. When they had only just met, and she'd not known him long enough to despise him, as most women had a habit of doing around John, human or no.  
With a calculated smirk he put the cigarette between his fingers into his mouth and tipped up the girl's chin. She met his eyes willingly and her resolve faded away, leaving Constantine grateful that he wouldn't have to influence her this time.

"So what can I do for you, Mr. Constantine?" she sighed as she took her chin out of the skilled magus' grasp, her eyes remaining on him as she looked down her nose at him. Ooh, last name basis. Ouch.  
"Information on a girl I'm trying to help." Come to think of it, he didn't even _know_ the girl's last name. 'Heh heh, oops.'  
"Trying to help? You?" He rolled his eyes, the cigarette embers glowing bright orange as he finished the butt and stomped it on the floor, much to the shopkeeper's chagrin. Her mouth opened to speak, a hand extended but the deed was already done, crunched under John's heel.  
"I do help people, y'know that. I helped you by getting rid of all that bad business." She wanted to scream at him for that comment but knew he'd been in the game longer than she had and he was probably right. Either that or just trying to ease a bit of slack into the noose before the trapdoor fell. "Apart from her, it's weighing on my mind too." She nodded with an air of intrigue, leaning over the counter with her hands balled up near her mouth and her elbows firmly pressed upon the counter.  
"Alright then. What can you tell me?"

* * *

After locking up the shop's front door to head out the back and see what her skills could pick up, she was now sitting at an ornate wooden table that was covered with a length of velvet. He had refused to sit, instead opting to light up another cigarette, as if it was some sort of deviation from his regular routine. Truthfully he just didn't want to feel the reverberations of the memories attached to the table that would've assaulted him had he come in contact with it. They'd made some incredible memories in this shop before and the dark-haired man was adamant not to trigger any of them at the moment. The task at hand was much too important for sidetracks. Thankfully, Ishtele wasn't as adept in empathy as he was, and her talents lay in what she could detect _outside_ herself.

Her eyes were closed, thick lashes casting wispy shadows over her high cheekbones. To the unsuspecting eye, she was phenomenally beautiful: her ebony hair gave off an azure hue in even the dullest of light and not one hair would stray from place, her almond-shaped eyes twinkling the same colour of amethysts. Each sway of her hips did funny things to a man's mind, like she was knocking him for six without any effort. Her figure was delicate yet svelte: she _knew_ she was a knockout. To anyone with any kind of power they would know that this was all a front, or a 'glamour' as it was known. A glamour was put in place by herself to hide her real face from everyone else. This was how she wanted to be seen and this was the way John knew was how she wanted him to see her. He had never told her that he knew her true beauty had been marred disfigurably by her mother for being more beautiful than she. Snow White syndrome. He knew how it had happened too, he'd become aware of it the first time he touched her. A pale, slightly-aged face coming towards her and the glint of a kitchen knife in her fist. Her hair was wild as were her eyes, framed with way too much kohl that ran in ribbons down her lifeless cheeks, mixing with the cried mascara stains. The blade was pulled back and John disengaged at that point, not really wanting to know much further.

Well, who would?

He'd never said anything to her about it. Logic denoted the glamour was in place for a reason, and he never trifled with it or her reasoning of it. Something inside told him that she knew he knew anyway, and was happy for the silence. It was best to leave the past where it belonged, in this case and focus on the task at hand.

Beneath the shroud of dark velvet the surface of the tabletop had been carved with sigils specifically for her purposes. Sigils of insight, of wisdom and of course, protection. An offering of blood for their troubles. Usually happened when you were carving into hard wood and your palm was in the way. Her fetish for blood and his eager nature. A grin on the conjuror's face emerged after he placed the cigarette back between his lips for a good lungful. Those were some good times. But anyway, back to the task at hand. It looked like the operator was connecting the call.

Ishtele's fingers gripped into the carved wood through the velvet, causing the furniture to creak under her fingertips. Good thing he'd put that circle of salt around her or else whatever was within her would be out and painting the town red, literally. Rule one with magic: never call a demon you don't know the Name of. He'd already learnt that lesson the hard way...

"Is this thing on? Hello? Can you hear me? Testing..." The sarcastic magus had his back to a bench, lazing up against it with his arms crossed over his chest, a new cigarette resting on his bottom lip.  
"Yes yes yeeees, I can heeeear you, I'm sitting right in front of you, John Constantine." The mechanical movement of Ishtele's head signalled the creature's arrival, her eyelids lifting and revealing black where the white should be. Creepy.

"So you are, Gin, so you are. How you been, me ol' china?" It was a personal joke of John's, since Ginra spoke in an eloquent British accent. Truthfully, his real lingo consisted of a lot of slime and sounds that would make your stomach crawl out your mouth they were so wretched. He was being considerate."Oh, can't complain can't complain can't complain." He also had a habit of repeating things three times. No one knew why. "Lot more of your folk down here now, there are there are there are!"  
"Rub it in a bit more, slug." When Gin was not inhabiting the bodies of beautiful women he looked something alot like Jabba the Hutt. More ooze though and much scarier. Gin however did not like to be reminded of his lack of looks and compensated with his refined dialect.  
"Why did you call me call me call me, John Constantine? I do have a life, y'know y'know yknow?"  
"Yes, eating intentions and whatnot."  
"Someone has to has to has to do it, m'boy." The smile left his face and he leant as far forward as the human body he was infiltrating and the barrier of salt would allow him the pleasure. "Get on with it."  
"Right, sure. I'm looking for an ID, Gin. Look at the topmost thought _only_," --he reiterated this point with a shove of mental energy to show how serious he was-- "you can have it. Double quick."  
"Yes yes yes, of coooooourse..." There was a brief red glowing of his...her...its eyes and the smell of sulfur that usually accompanied any demon on the physical plane intensified. It was a moment too long when the feasting demon finally replied.  
"Ohhh, delicious delicious delicious. Such a sweet young mind..."  
"Task at hand, m'friend."  
"Yes yes yes, certainly... her? You don't know _her_? Oh dear oh dear oh dear, you're in for a treat then. That's Zekial's brat." Well, this mission had just gotten more difficult.  
"Zeke? Shit, he had kids?"  
"Just the one. The girl. Kept 'er in Hell to spite 'er mum. She was not pleased, allow me to assure you!"  
"Understood." It was close enough to his experience to send the shivers coursing up his spine. Zekial was a bad egg to say the least. Sure, a lot of fun to screw with --as were all demons-- but the repercussions would be a lot more ghastly. Zekial was a particularly vile incubus who loved nothing more than playing with and torturing the girls he caught unaware. It was his job to seduce, but he took it that step further into an M.O. Especially when the other party wasn't willing. Many a young woman had been mistreated and held against her will by Zeke, and he prided himself on his conquests like a jock with a big mouth.  
"So she's run away finally. Can't blame her." His memories of her plunging into the deep unknown now made more sense. Much more sense. It also meant that she may not be aware of her power, especially in the earthen realm. Surely it wouldn't take long for her to slip up, hurt herself and have her wounds heal up in front of a nosy orderly's eyes. Then all Hell would break loose.  
'Can't have that now.'  
"Little poppet little poppet little poppet ran away from home. Father's been out to play and not and not and not known of her escape until recently, when he returned 'ome after a long 'olid'y."  
"Doing what he does best, no doubt."  
"Indeed indeed indeed, John Constantine. I wish you the best of luck."  
"Yeah..." he scoffed noisily, finishing the last of the butt between his yellowing fingers. "Best of luck with the suffering and dying, because then you get to eat my mind."  
"You know me too well too well too well." What followed was what should sounded like laughter, but more like a clogged drain full of water. John cringed inwardly at the sound, turning his nose up in disgust.  
"Unfortunately I do. Take care, me ol' china." Another robotic nod of the girl's head and her eyes rolled back and were restored to white instead of that horrid black, purple irises blazing brightly in the dimly-lit room.  
"Any luck?" she offered, her much more feminine, exquisite gypsy voice full of hope. Trust the grumpy, chain-smoking alcoholic to be the voice of reason.

_"We're in deep shit, Ish."_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

A solitary silhouette of darkness moved swiftly against the night as the air grew cold with frost. A single burning orange light bobbed with his movement, dark hair wisping as he took the stairs two at a time and walked into the building. Varying bursts of steam and smoke escaped from between his lips at intervals. John stalked the corridor and flew up more stairs. He had purpose now; he knew what they'd be facing...

...and it was _not_ gonna be pretty.

Finally reaching his destination he dropped another spent cigarette and crushed it under his heel. It was a good thing he did. When the door opened he was lucky to still be breathing. There before him, looking like an angel of mercy was none other than Detective Dodson herself, shining like a beacon due to the bright lights overhead in her apartment. Her auburn hair fell over one side of her face and she wore a skirt that caressed halfway down her thighs. God, she owned skirts? It was like drowning in an ocean of perfume...  
'Come on, man, keep it together...'  
"John!" she exclaimed, probably a little louder than she wanted to. "This is a surprise..."  
"For me too, but I couldn't in good conscience let it wait any longer..." Her eyes sparkled with some unseen light, her teeth catching her bottom lip discretely.  
"Oh?" Her eyebrows lifted expectantly, the tip of her tongue darting out to the side sneakily. John's hands caught her forearms, the breath stolen from her lungs as he pulled her towards him.  
"Yes, and we've got to do something about it right now. There's no time to waste..."  
Her eyes widened further as she leant into his hands slightly, accentuating the tightness of her button-down shirt. The effort did not go unnoticed. In fact, it was driving him mad. She got closer and closer to him as the background flew away, like a dolly shot in a low-budget film. He cleared his throat, wishing he were gripping his flask instead.  
"This situation with the girl is pretty crazy already, and it's about to get much crazier. We must do something about it immediately."

The girl? Oh yeah, _that_ girl.

Angela had heard a different urgency in his words about a whole other subject. Of _course_ it would be about the girl.

"But she's fine! I put her into protective custody myself, I know about the reputation of the facility, they're a reputable establishment-..."  
"It's not her I'm worried about. We've got to get her out of there. _Now_." That meant driving.  
"Can't it wait until the morning, John?" He sighed and put another cigarette in between his lips.  
"I wish it could. Unfortunately not. This is much bigger than we can handle. We'll need her on our side or we're screwed."  
"What do you mean 'our side'?"

Angela looked into John's eyes; he wasn't whistling Dixie. The light that usually twinkled within them had been all but blown out. He was serious. Something was wrong, and he was holding out. She was about to start asking questions when he yanked her out the door, Angela only just managing to grab her coat from the rack at the entrance and close the door behind her.

* * *

Angela had been driving for a good twenty minutes in silence before they hit a red light. Opportunity.  
"John? You remember how you told me this girl is a danger?" He nodded. "What did you mean by that?"  
"Doesn't matter," he uttered blankly. "She's not the one we have to worry about anymore."  
The light had gone green and the person behind her beeped their horn to let her know. She slammed her foot down on the gas a little heavier than usual, which caused them to jolt forward in their seats. "I'm sorry, I'm lost. She's not dangerous anymore?"  
"No, she's still dangerous." He'd already lit another cigarette and blue puffs of smoke curled from his mouth as he spoke. "She's not the worst of our problems now. Her father is."

Now she'd heard everything.

"What?" John looked at Angela bemusedly, enjoying the wave of confusion on her face.  
"Zekial. A demon... one seriously _bad_ seed. Was made an incubus simply because they thought he had an aptitude for preying upon women... and he's an asshole as well. He'll be coming after her anytime now... if he hasn't already sent someone out for her." The pages of the open book on his lap fluttered and he traced each line with his finger.  
"Last minute research?"  
"Something like that." The four-wheel drive came to a halt outside the facility, the engine shutting off.  
"John. What are going up against?" The detective reached into her glovebox and pulled out a standard-issue handgun.  
"Hopefully nothing... if we can get to her before he does..." John threw the door open and got out, tossing the old tome onto the seat. '...and I'm not liking our chances.'

He was edgy as he waited for all the bureaucratic red tape to be finalised. When given the all-clear he practically ran down the hallway to the room the nurse said she'd be in.  
"Sir, wait! She's fine! No one's been in there since last night!"  
"Then we may already be too late..." She was muttering her protests upon deaf ears. Angela drew her gun and asked the woman to remain at her post should she be needed to call the authorities.

John had his hand in his pocket, the other flat against the door while he stared through... nothing. Not even a whisper of life. Bad.

Plan B.

Shoulder first he rammed against the door, which wouldn't budge. On the third attempt it shifted a little, then slammed shut. Like someone was keeping him out. The hand in his pocket came out then, a piece of chalk in hand. Muttering under his breath, eyes closed now he scrawled a circular sigil upon the door, which immediately glowed pink-red when completed.

"Wards."  
"What?"  
"Whoever put them up was lucky. Reeks of an amateur. Sloppily crafted but shit, they're hard to break through!" He drew more symbols around the main sigil, each one flying from the door and crumbling to dust as he was refused entry. "There's something... I'm not quite getting here..." A few more failures. "I don't get it! Why won't they fall?" He was getting pissed off. They had serious power, whoever cast them. In his fury he drew a zigzag line over the whole thing... then had an idea...

"Now, what if I...?" He added a small circle to one end of the zigzag and a line at the other end. Sigil _on top_ of sigil. Each one he layered on weakened the colouring of the symbols. Soon they glowed with a brilliant white, filled in and disappeared, the door's latch giving.  
"YES! Gotta love loopholes." He turned to smile at Angela whose brow was furrowed so deep that if you looked hard enough you'd see China. Not wanting to press he pushed against the door, the wind hitting him hard in the face.

The whole outside wall was gone. The room was however, still intact.

"What the... fuck?"  
John whipped around at Angela's admonishment. Last thing he expected to hear from her. Perhaps his bad influence was rubbing off. Other sordid things came to mind, but he pushed them away. Time for that later.  
"We're too late. He's got her." John tugged at his hair, clearly frustrated. Like one motion he retrieved his packet from an inside pocket, took the cigarette between his lips and lit the end in a breath.

Angela was in cop mode; her straight arms held her gun, muzzle pointed to the floor. The walls --or what was left of them, anyway-- were scorched at the edges.  
"Whoever did this, it was precise. Controlled. A bomb would've taken out the inner wall as well." She had a point. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of it earlier. She walked around the charred floor, stopping just before her bed and looked down. "What d'you make of this?"  
On the exhale he followed her line of sight and paused upon a pile of ash upon the floor. He jammed the butt between his lips and squinting, crouched down to get a closer look.  
"I'd say it's ash." Angela rolled her eyes.  
"Obviously. But why?"  
"You tell me." She was standing behind him then moved over beside him and crouched down to take a sample.  
"Fuck that." He plucked the cigarette from his mouth and took a pinch of it in his hands. "Here." She was in the midst of protesting but as soon as she touched it:

_Pain. Smoke. Bubbling, searing flesh. Inhuman screams._

_"What... what are you doing? NOOOOOOOO!" _

_Bright, _bright_ white light..._

Shocked, she dropped what John had given her and was up like a shot. She was pacing, babbling incoherently about the smell, the screeching and bubbling... she was almost tempted to take a drag on that cigarette herself. John stubbed it out in the ash pile on the floor and stood, placing his hands on her shoulders.

"What? What'd you see?" The contact had stopped her frenzy enough to make her turn around.

She was wide-eyed, her shoulders drawn up high, mouth agape. Shaking like an autumn leaf caught in a gale. John lowered his head to coax eye contact from her. Her hands gripped his arms, tears slipping from her eyes.  
"Tell me what you saw."  
"God... oh God, she killed him!"  
"She...? She who? _He_ who?"  
She gave John a description: as best she could when it was only a scaly hand as its skin melted away. Scaly hand. Demonic?  
"Yeah, sounds like a demon. Henchman from Zeke. Sounds like she got him good... so she did all this?"  
"It would seem the only likely explanation."  
"Hmmm... perhaps there's more demon in her than she'd like to admit. She must be a cambrion."  
"A what? Look... John, you're gonna have to stop with all these words unless you're planning to explain what they mean."  
John was walking around the room now, turning over papers and other things as he flicked his Zippo into action, effectively messing up the room's contents.

"A cambrion is a child born of a demon and a human. Daddy's Little Girl is a force to be reckoned with. This is good." Still with the rifling.  
"And why's that? We've got nothing."  
"True, but she can defend herself, so by the time we get to her..."  
"She'll still be alive!"  
"Bingo. Ah, this should do nicely." He lifted a few strands of wispy blonde hair from the pillow on the bed. "You'll have to be very specific. We want to know where she's gone."  
"And how do you propose I do that? I just get residual images!"  
"For now. Time for phase 2, grasshopper."

* * *

Shining, white teeth peered out of a full, luscious mouth, lips as red as fresh cherries. Happy? Quite. Gruesome? More fitting a term. Yes, the man was more than good looking but if you knew what he was capable of you'd think twice and cross the street when you saw him rather than stare, enamoured with unbridled lust.

The fluid billowing of his black overcoat mesmerised the women he passed; made them turn and watch him pass them by.  
'Weak minds.'  
His straight dark hair bounced above his shoulders in time with his gait, his steel-coloured suit pristinely offset by the black shirt and matching grey tie. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes though it was twilight, and it was just as well. He was striking and he knew it.

It _was_ his business, after all.

Los Angeles was the best place to be seen. There wasn't a moment on the mortal plane that he wasn't noticed. All he need do was allow them to see what was behind those dark shades and he'd have them eating from his shiny leather shoes. They'd walk out in front of semi-trailer trucks had he asked them to. Amongst all the suits it was easy for him to slip in and out of crowds, take what he wanted and vanish again without breaking a sweat.

That was when he saw her. His next sweetheart. She just didn't know it yet. He'd had always been a sucker for a blonde anyway.

She was walking briskly, pencil skirt constricting her knees. Her white-blonde hair was up tight in a chignon, glasses perched upon her nose. Her white corporate shirt had been unbuttoned at the top, just enough for him to see a hint of milky cleavage. The matching jacket was buttoned at her waist.  
'What a delectable creature...'  
His hand stretched out and touched her face as she walked by; nothing more than a feather upon her cheek. She turned to accost whoever had dared to touch her, but the words lay dead in her throat.  
The man had her attention. Someone had slowed down the tape. With two fingers he pushed down one arm of his shades and she was able to see his eyes. Heat rose in her as his lips thinned slightly and the corners slowly lifted. Her whole world turned red and deep within, something swelled and tore at her insides to get out. Her eyelids drooped slightly and her eyes went glassy. His charcoal irises gleamed like mica deposits in slate, his pupils turning red. A breath rushed from her mouth as he put his glasses back over his eyes and continued on his way, leading his new pet along on an invisible leash. Gone.

_Game over._

* * *


End file.
